The Journey Home
by AmeliaBlair
Summary: Sherlock is back in the UK for the first time since his departure. Being so close to London has brought memories back of a certain army doctor with new revelations. However, with two hours to go, his mind is plagued with memories suppressed. Can he keep it together long enough to make it to London, or will his thoughts consume him? Johnlock one-shot.


"_SHERLOCK_!"

The man in question turned around, only to find he saw nothing in the darkness around him. He sighed and continued walking down the rainy street, only to bump into a passing pedestrian.

"Oi, watch it mate" the pedestrian grumbled, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. From a glance Sherlock saw blond hair and a shorter stature than his own.

"John?" he asked as he turned to look.

The man turned to look at him. "'Fraid you're mistaken, mate."

Sherlock saw the man's unsaid thoughts: _drunk, pickpocket, arsehole._ He flinched.

He gave the man a quick scan as he deduced him. _Impaired vision. Recently divorced. New flat. Small dog. Dead father. _"Sorry" he mumbled. "I thought you were someone else."

"Well, I'm not. Sorry." He walked away quickly. _Freak. Desperate._

Once he left, Sherlock chided himself. This was not the first time that had happened. At first glance, the man looked unbelievably close to the army doctor; however, the man, upon inspection, looked nothing at all like John, with the exception of his blond hair and short stature. He was much too thin, and his eyes were the wrong colour besides. He walked faster now, grumbling as he went. Not only had John crept into his mind again, but his initial glance at the man was so annoyingly flawed that he began to worry if his deductive reasoning skills were beginning to lose their edge.

Wanting to prove himself wrong, Sherlock looked across the narrow street. A café with dim orange lights revealed a middle-aged man sitting alone, reading the paper whilst crap telly played on the screen behind him. He yawned and turned the page, taking a sip of espresso formerly hidden by the newspaper.

_Wife. Two kids...John... Recently unemployed. Happy... John... Allergy. Pet cat... John..._

Sherlock growled and grabbed his hair in his hands. Backing himself into a nearby alley, he pressed himself against the wall, his hands forming angry fists in his hair.

"Stop it" he told himself, frustrated at his lack of focus. He let go of his hair, closed his eyes, and breathed, hoping that that would refocus him to the task at hand: planning his return to London. It was an easy endeavour; nevertheless, Sherlock wanted to ensure its success to a degree of perfection only a consulting detective would desire.

He exhaled one last time and opened his eyes.

_Get to London_, he thought, _and everything will fall into place. _

Once sorted, he continued his rainy stroll to some address Mycroft had given him. They would be his quarters for the night. "Small" position in the British government or not, Sherlock could not deny Mycroft's political power. He wandered the streets, checking his mobile occasionally to ensure that he would find the place in the shortest amount of time possible. He did not know the city of Dover as well as he did London, though he was sure he would memorise at least the main streets by the time he left the city.

Sherlock marveled at the fact that this was his first day back in the United Kingdom. Oh, how long he had waited for this day! He was almost home, where he would find some way to tell John—

He stopped in his tracks to clear the thought from his mind.

He could have no distractions in his plans. No— not even John could come in the way of his odyssey. Any distractions at all could mean death, or so he feared.

Finally, he found his lodgings: it appeared to be a small, dreary flat, an unusual choice in venue. Normally, Mycroft would have found him something a bit more... posh, but due to the circumstances, it made sense that he would have picked a more discreet location. Sherlock was willing to sacrifice the comfort of a fancy hotel if it meant a faster trip to London.

He pushed on the door to his flat, and found it open. Taped to the tattered wall was the key to the place, and Sherlock locked the door and leaned against it, glad to be out of the horrid downpour.

"_Okay, that was ridiculous._"

For a moment, Sherlock thought he was back at the flat, _his _flat, panting and laughing with—

He shook his wet curls and frowned. _No distractions._

__He climbed up the steps to his flat, hoping to sleep the hours until he would be in London away.

* * *

Morning could not have come soon enough.

He dreamt of John. He dreamt of what he had had with him, and what he had lost. He dreamt of the time they had spent together: the cases, the dinners, the conversations. The time Sherlock spent simply looking at him and his adorable nose and the way his eyes lit up at the mention of the word "danger" and that muscle twitch in his jaw when he was angry and—

By morning Sherlock realised he had made a grave error in his deductions of himself.

John meant more to him than just a friend or partner in crime.

Sherlock loved John.

Which brought the unavoidable question: Did John love Sherlock?

Sherlock groaned and rolled over in his bed. How could he let this happen?

Emotions were not supposed to be a problem for Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Emotions came second to his work. People came second to his work. _He _came second to his work.

The only thing that could ever come first was the pursuit of knowledge.

John was supposed to be an afterthought. John supposed to be just a flatmate, or a colleague, perhaps. John was never supposed to be someone he loved.

"_How will this affect my mind palace_?" he wondered. The thought made him sick to his stomach. He never imagined that he would be caught between an army doctor and a beautiful world of knowledge. A man and a palace.

Finally sick of musing over his beautiful nightmare, his one-sided conflict (which of course it was, seeing that John clearly had no feelings for him), Sherlock got out of bed and showered before realising he hadn't brought a change of clothes. The clothes he had were completely unacceptable for his return to London. A jumper, jeans, and a cheap set of trainers formerly adorned the now naked consulting detective as he dripped water across his room. His old clothes would have to do if he found nothing else, and in this spartan flat, it seemed that that would be his only option.

He went in search of clothes in the next room over; he smiled as he found an armoire. Given its lavish nature, Mycroft surely must have planted it there. He opened it and found a coat, shoes, button down, slacks, and blazer hung neatly in respective cases. A note hung from the garment bag.

_Sherlock, _

_I thought you would like to freshen up before your arrival in London. I would have hidden the clothes in various parts of the flat and had you search for them; however, I had more important things on my mind yesterday. Be glad your clothing matches. I was also considering giving you a horrid outfit for your homecoming, but thought against it._

_Do keep that in mind next time you decide to attempt to embarrass me. _

_Mycroft_

_P.S. I have had your wardrobe (including your disguises) moved to Mummy's flat in Mayfair. I trust that you will use them (ir)responsibly._

For once, Sherlock thanked Mycroft for his generosity and dressed. He left his old clothes in the armoire and bolted out of the flat, curly hair still damp. He was going home.

All that was left to do was find the train station.

* * *

After a half hour of searching, Sherlock found the train station, and Mycroft. He stood regally in front of the entrance, cane in his right hand.

"Mycroft" Sherlock deadpanned.

"A good morning would suffice" Mycroft replied, giving him an icy stare. A black BMW drove up to them.

"You didn't think I would let you ride that bloody train, did you?"

"Of the five most likely scenarios, it could have gone either way."

Mycroft gave a mirthless laugh. "Up you go then." He poked his brother towards the car with his cane.

Sherlock scowled, but followed anyway. He attempted to sit in the passenger's seat, which earned him a quick slap in the shins thanks to Mycroft's cane.

"Really, brother? Don't be daft."

Sherlock begrudgingly stepped to the side and sat in the back, whilst Mycroft sat in the passenger's seat with a smirk.

"You're lucky I didn't want to cause a ruddy scene, Mycroft" he pouted as the car drove off.

Mycroft turned around to face him and smirked.

"Welcome back, Sherlock."

He cleared his throat in acknowledgement and looked out the window. Grey skies. As always.

"_You've gone all croaky. You getting a cold_?"

Sherlock squinted his eyes, trying to get the thought out of his head. It only made it worse.

_"It's a head. A severed head."_

Sherlock put his hands on his temples. Stop.

_"I knew it was dangerous getting you into crap telly."_

"No" he groaned to himself quietly.

_"Well, I'm glad no one saw that."_

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Are you alright?"

_"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."_

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock yelled, and the car slowed.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft reprimanded. "What do you think you're doing?"

"My...mind..." he groaned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked at the driver. "Carry on. He's going through one of his moods again."

"Emotions" he complained, barely audible.

"Ah" Mycroft said with a knowing curl of his lips. "You know your mind palace isn't infallible, don't you?"

"Shut up" he groaned in reply.

"Your emotions will get the best of you sometimes. There's no preventing it."

"I can bloody well try" he snarked, opening his eyes to glare at his brother.

Mycroft smirked. "You'll only make it worse."

"I have to get to London safely, you know."

"And you will. Just accept that it's happening and move on. You've got at least two hours to do it."

Sherlock glared and crossed his arms, though he knew his brother was right. He wouldn't admit it, though. He looked out the window.

Two hours.

Just accept it.

In those two hours, Sherlock allowed himself to think of John, the memories they shared together, and what would happen in their future. He allowed his grinning face to reenter his mind, to consume his thoughts, thoughts that could think nothing but of his love for John.

It seemed to be a matter of minutes before he saw the Thames in front of him again.

Sherlock was ready. Plan aside, Sherlock knew that he was ready to see John again. No longer did he care solely for how he was to do it, he wanted to know when.

So, a few days later, a French waiter with a drawn-on moustache appeared to a blond, short man— his blond, short man, with an announcement of "Not dead" on his lips.

He didn't care of what would happen now. He had his John.


End file.
